


Morning in the Garden

by Evayna



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon Related, Flowers, Gen, Philosophy, The Adventure of the Naval Treaty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:25:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evayna/pseuds/Evayna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was prompted to reinterpret the flowers speech from 'The Adventure of the Naval Treaty' as a ficlet with a cover. Threw in a little child death because apparently there's something wrong with me. I recommend reading the original speech to pick up on references, or watching Jeremy Brett's performance if you can find it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning in the Garden

“Sherlock?” I was standing in someone’s - a client’s - back garden. It was not long past dawn, and the sun was just starting to shine through dense, drifting fog. Everything had a yellow-white haze to it; dreamlike. Sherlock rose from the fog before me with his hand held out, closed tightly on something. “What’s that?”  
  
He turned his hand and splayed those long, pale fingers, releasing blades of grass that fluttered and fell back through the mist. “This is where he was seized.”  
  
“Kidnapped? I thought his body was found here?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock looked down at me. “A turn of phrase. The boy had a seizure.”  
  
“The mother didn’t mention a history of convulsions.” I furrowed my brow; it didn’t seem likely I could forget something like that. She hadn’t told us much; just that the family had only recently moved to the neighbourhood and that he had always been a ‘very happy, sweet little boy’. Seizures seemed like something that would’ve stood out.  
  
“He didn’t have a history,” Sherlock put bluntly. “Come,” he tugged at my sleeve, “Look here.”  
  
I succumbed to his directing and crouched down, waving away tendrils of fog to get a better look at the ground before us. The grass was dewy, but I knew there was more to it than that. Applying a sharper eye, I could see two places where it had been torn up. I followed the path of my companions index finger, where further over the turf had been pushed back and split open, revealing rich, dark earth. I was trying, but I still couldn’t piece any of it together. When I looked back at my friend he was leaning gracefully forward to pull something from the grass. It looked like nothing at first, but then he brought it between our faces. Shifting my focus I caught a glimpse of copper; a strand of hair quivering with our exhalations.  
  
Sherlock’s face was drawn. “They didn’t tell us about the unusual pose of the body.”  
  
“What do you mean?” It was hard for me to tell if he was showing sympathy or just annoyance.  
  
“Opisthotonus. The child would’ve been arched dramatically.”  
  
“Just from these markings?” I started to rise again, my leg already protesting.  
  
“No,” Sherlock replied, standing in one smooth, slow motion. “Also that smell.”  
  
With all the fog I was a little concerned about poisonous gases, but when I saw Sherlock take in a deep breath I relaxed, and curiously took a whiff myself. It was sweet… A little like tea at a chinese restaurant, and a little like the nice perfume an old girlfriend used to wear.  
  
“Yellow jasmine,” he hummed. “Gelsemium sempervirens. A very bewitching flower.” He moved away from me, creating a wake. Draped along the arbour were small yellow flowers nestled amongst dark green leaves. The smell grew stronger as I neared.  
  
“Beautiful.”  
  
“Mm,” he hummed again. “Yes.” He plucked a blossom and held it between us, like he had with the fine bit of hair. “They can be known to attract bees you know.”  
  
I did not know, but he continued.  
  
“The honey it produces is incredibly sweet… and incredibly deadly.” He twisted the flower between his fingers, and his icy eyes seemed to gaze both at it and through it. “The boy must have been drawn just like the bees. So similar looking to the honeysuckle he was used to back home.”  
  
“You think he ate it?”  
  
“Sucked at the nectar, yes.” He frowned. We stood there a moment, and I saw his mind wander.  
  
“Still awful nice though,” I interjected, looking around at the garden as the morning sun crept higher, splashing golden light across the shrubs and vines.  
  
“Such an embellishment of life, flowers. They have their evolutionary quirks, as does everything, but that we can find them so beautiful…” He drifted off into thought.  
  
I had never heard Sherlock talking like this. He was in a state of wonder.  
  
His face animated again after a moment of deep reflection. “Religion is often thought to be a realm logic and reason had best leave alone, but I find there is nothing in which deduction is so necessary. Nearly all things in life serve simply to _continue_ life, to survive and reproduce and so on. In my line of work I’ve seen so much death I’ve grown to know life very intimately from its absence. I know the workings of the body and the mind, how it preserves and connives.” He pauses to take another whiff, closing his eyes for a moment.  
  
“In my research, I’ve learned much of flowers. A natural aspect of my interest in bees, you see. And although I know a great deal about how they grow and what they do, they’ve maintained a mystique; something about them that is still…” He placed the blossom carefully back amongst the others. “Untouchable.”  
  
He turned and surveyed the garden, taking and releasing a deep breath before continuing. “It’s the why of it, John. The scent, the colour, the nectar even. That we can find such pleasure in flowers, even if it kills us… it is an excess of life. And only goodness gives extras.”  
  
“Much to hope from the flowers, then?” I concluded.  
  
“Exactly,” my friend smiled at me. “Now then!” he began, “Shall we ask the neighbours why they recently unburied something?”  
  
I looked at the pile of upturned dirt nestled behind the tulips. “But how do you kno-“  
  
When I looked up he was already hopping the fence.


End file.
